Black Magic (9 page)

These acres had been Apex Sugar’s farmland for decades. But the government had bought them out and turned the deed back over to the original owner. All man-made improvements had been stripped away, the land leveled and access restricted. The first rainy season hit and the acreage went underwater, just as planned. Plants and animals exploited the new habitat with a vengeance. Just a few miles from Citrus Glade, the Everglades was making a comeback.

And the government paid Autumn to watch the show. Witnessing the advance of wilderness was a biologist’s dream job. Every day she documented the return of a new species or the bloom of a plant long absent. She’d never felt so attuned to nature.

And the job offer came as she was completely out of tune with humanity. Years of graduate lab research had left her burned out on the hard science half of biology. After graduation she wanted to get back to the aspects that happened above the cellular level, to be immersed in nature. The job near Citrus Glade was about as far south as she could go without getting wet, and as far from civilization as she thought she wanted to be. So she graduated, spent a week in her New York hometown of Sagebrook with her mother, and then headed to Florida.

She pulled her smart phone from her pocket, typed in some observational notes and turned for home. The commute was the best part of the job.

Her small RV was parked at the end of the road. Porky, as she called the van-based camper, was her first post-graduate investment. The brochure said that it slept four and that was as accurate as the “servings” count on most packaged foods. In reality, it was perfect for one person with a minimalist lifestyle. Six years of college had her well prepared for a minimalist lifestyle. She’d traded her car at the dealership, tossed her clothes in the back and piloted the RV south on I-95. She hadn’t looked back.

She slipped out of her boots, stepped into home-sweet-home and tossed her hat on the table. Her light red hair had always been at least shoulder length but she’d cut it short for the hot south Florida field work. She gave it a quick, cooling fluff with both hands. A generous helping of freckles still dotted her cheeks, despite her mother’s prediction that she would grow out of them. Sweat soaked her shirt and shorts but the wet clothes did not reveal much of a figure. She called herself a lean, mean observational machine.

Her schedule was about three days in field and then a trip into town. Satellite TV and radio made the isolation much more bearable than the average person would think. Plus, she wasn’t really alone.

“Where’s my Oscar?” she called.

A big orange tabby lifted a sleepy head off of the small sleeping bunk. He blinked twice, assessed that Autumn was no threat, and returned to the land cats spent most of their day.

“Good job, Watch-cat,” Autumn said. Oscar had joined her south of Richmond. On a whim she visited a shelter and rescued the old codger. At ten, all the annoying kitten traits were long gone. He was housebroken and trained to travel. Plus he had climbed up into Autumn’s lap when she sat down at the shelter. Experience told her redheads had to stick together, so she liberated him for a life on the road.

Today was the day to run into town. Fresh food, new water, top off the gas. She started up the RV and slipped it into gear. It rocked like a ship at sea over the rough sand road before it hit smoother sailing on CR 12. Minutes later she was in Citrus Glade. When Porky pulled into the Food Bonanza supermarket parking lot, she parked him next to an aging white pickup with county exempt tags. The truck didn’t pique her interest. Its cargo did.

The gator that hung across the tailgate had to be fifteen feet long. This specimen was to gator length what Michael Jordan was to human height: a major outlier. Of course her length estimate was more of a guess than usual. The head had been crushed flat. She reached down to open the jaws and inspect the teeth.

“Hey, hey. You don’t want to do that!”

She turned to see a man in a city DPW uniform jogging up to the truck.
 

“It’s okay,” Autumn said. She pulled out her ID from the National Parks Service that listed her name with her Ph.D. “My name’s Autumn. You can trust me. I’m a doctor.” She winked at him. “This is a hell of a gator you have here.”

“He was my morning project,” Andy said. “I’m Andy Patterson, by the way.”

“Road kill your specialty?”

“One of my many areas of expertise,” Andy said, voice tinged with sarcasm. “It’s a small town with a small-town budget. Gator’s your specialty?”

“One of
my
many areas of expertise,” Autumn said. She ran a finger along the gator’s ridged dorsal scutes. “I’m monitoring the old Apex farms as the Everglades reclaims them.”

“Maybe you can tell me what this bad boy was doing on CR 12 in the middle of the night.”

Autumn paused her inspection. “Really? That’s odd. There’s abundant new habitat with the Apex land flooded. He should not have had to travel that far for good hunting, especially this time of year. Even juveniles haven’t seen any habitat stress.”

Andy gave the dead gator a sad look. “It’s a shame.”

Autumn was impressed. The universal description locals had for an alligator was invariably either “pest” or “profit” depending on whether you were a poodle-loving homeowner or a hunter. They walked back to the front of the vehicles. She pulled a business card from her ID case.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If you come across one without a Firestone tread pattern, let me know. A nice dissection will sure add to my survey results.”

Andy tucked the card into his shirt pocket. “Will do.”

Behind Autumn, Oscar surfaced in the RV’s driver’s side window, two white-tipped paws on the door edge. He eyed Andy with suspicion and let out a low meow.

Autumn’s face turned red. “Sorry. He thinks you are keeping me from restocking his personal food pantry.”

“And apparently I am,” Andy said. He reached up and touched an index finger to the glass. Oscar sniffed it as if he could smell it through the glass. He closed his eyes and rubbed the side of his face against the window.

“Looks like you’re forgiven,” Autumn said in shock.

“I’ve got to get to the dump before Tick-Tock here starts to ripen,” Andy said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Autumn said. The white pickup pulled away and Autumn turned to face Oscar, who was still in the car window. “And what’s with Mr. Anti-Social being so friendly all of a sudden?”

Oscar managed a small exculpatory meow.

She turned and watched the truck drive off. “And what’s with a guy who can reference
Peter Pan
off the cuff?”
 

It might be time to spend more time in town.

Chapter Nineteen

Mayor Flora Diaz was sure the latest addition to Citrus Glade was a good thing. Reverend Rusty Wright of the First Baptist Church was certainly no fan. But Flora wasn’t one to look at any new business in her withered town with too jaundiced an eye. Other than Vicente Ferrer’s car business, Citrus Glade had the commercial traffic of a ghost town. After the minor orange and grapefruit harvests, everyone kind of hunkered down for the rest of the year. This could be the first of dozens of shops that refill the shuttered stores on Main Street, the start of a regular renaissance after the NSA embarrassment.

And that return to small town greatness was her dream. She had been raised here, back when Apex money sloshed around town like swirling water in a bucket. She missed the place when she lived in Coral Gables. When she inherited her mother’s house, she moved back and friends convinced her to run for mayor. The job was mostly PR and she didn’t mind the tiny pay to do her part to try and resuscitate her hometown.
 

She and Reverend Wright stood outside the refurbished Magic Shop. Reverend Wright was a good half-foot taller than the mayor. He had thin angular features with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. His full head of silver hair was all that kept him from looking cadaverous. He wore a shiny light gray suit with a bright yellow tie. Reverend Rusty was always dressed like the TV preacher he’d longed to be, no matter what the weather dictated. He pointed a long finger at the Magic Shop window.

“That there is the work of Satan,” he said. He spit the last word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Witchcraft has come to town and we need to crush it before it spreads.”

Flora looked at him askance. She had the elected political power, but Reverend Rusty had an hour-long weekly conduit to most of the townspeople. She had learned how willing he was to fan the flames of public opinion when something ran afoul of one of his Biblical interpretations. When he’d called her about the “abomination” in the center of town, she knew better than to ignore him.
 

“Reverend,” she said. “It’s a magic shop. Kids’ toys.”

“A conduit to the Devil himself,” the Reverend said. He clutched a black leather-bound Bible to his chest.

The excess drama made Flora sigh. “Now, Rusty. He’s just a normal shop owner. He did a benefit show at the retirement home for Pete’s sake. We’ll talk to the man.”

They entered the store with the ring of a bell. A big brass cash register from the 1920s sat on the end of a poorly stocked display counter. There wasn’t much inventory on display elsewhere either. A set of shelves along the back wall held boxed kids’ magic sets and several different books on stage craft. A mannequin stood in the corner wearing a black silk top hat and a short black cape with a bright red lining. Lyle Miller stepped out from the back room, artificial smile already in place, hand extended.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said. “I’m Lyle Miller.”

“Mayor Flora Diaz,” Flora said as she shook his hand. “And Reverend Rusty Wright.”

The Reverend shunned Lyle’s proffered handshake. The magician’s eyes narrowed and he pulled back his hand.

“What can I do for you this morning, Mayor?”

“We’re just checking out your store,” she said. “The opening was kind of a surprise.”

“Yes, well, I did all the paperwork over the phone. The owner was happy to find a tenant.”

Flora didn’t doubt it. The buildings on both sides of the street were mostly vacant.
 

“The Reverend here has some concerns,” Flora said, voice tinged with dismissive sweetness, “that you will be directing our youth to the dark side.”

Lyle laughed with a bit too much emotion. “No, no. Rest assured, good Reverend. Everything here is just stage magic.”

“Stage magic?” the Reverend said.

“Of course,” Lyle said. “Illusion, prestidigitation, sleight-of-hand. Simple tricks made amazing with a bit of showmanship. Allow me.”

Lyle stepped behind the counter. He pulled out three cups and a red ball. He placed the ball under the center cup.

“We all know where the ball is,” he said. He gave the cups a lazy shuffle in a figure-eight pattern. “And it seems easy enough to follow. In fact right now…” He paused the shuffle. “…it should be in the center spot again. But through the use of stage magic…”
 

He raised the cup. No ball. He stacked the three cups. The ball was gone.

“…it has vanished.”

The mayor raised an eyebrow. The corners of Reverend Rusty’s mouth drooped in boredom.

“But we know the ball didn’t vanish,” Lyle said. He flipped one hand over and the ball popped out from the wrist of his shirt. “It’s just a little trick. Hand-eye coordination and audience misdirection.”
 

Flora turned to Reverend Rusty and batted her long eyelashes. “See, children’s toys.”
 

The Reverend appeared unmoved.

“Kids learn that practice makes perfect and that there’s an art to showmanship,” Lyle said. “All clean fun.”

“And the kind of magic that
isn’t
stage magic, Mr. Miller?” the Reverend asked.

“Ah, ritual magic,” Lyle said. “Witchcraft and wiccans. Conjuring the powers of nature, practicing the black arts. None of that happens behind these doors.”

“All clean fun,” Flora repeated. “Happy, Reverend?” She already knew the answer.

“I’ll keep my eye on you,” Reverend Rusty said to Lyle.

“I look forward to it,” Lyle said. There was a look in his eye that Flora didn’t quite like, but it disappeared in an instant.

Lyle offered the Reverend his hand again. The Reverend looked down in derision. Lyle offered it to Flora instead.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mayor.” He gave her a true politician’s handshake, firm grip with the right, his left hand at her wrist.

“Good luck, Mr. Miller,” she said as she directed the Reverend to the door. “I love to see new business downtown.”

As soon as they were outside, she turned to the Reverend.
 

“Please, Rusty. This fellow has just invested more in this town than anyone else in years. His place could be the start of something wonderful. More shops could follow. People traveling between Miami and Naples will start to see Citrus Glade as a destination.”

Reverend Rusty looked back at the storefront window. The sun’s glare masked the narrow view of the store beyond it. He drew himself up and gripped his Bible.

“I’ll be watching him,” he said. “The good Lord will be my guide and I shall watch Mr. Miller.”